


A Fitton Carol

by sc010f



Category: Cabin Pressure, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-28
Updated: 2011-12-28
Packaged: 2017-10-28 08:44:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/306048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sc010f/pseuds/sc010f
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>n a cold winter's night in Fitton, Sally Donovan, on a fool's errand for Sherlock breaks down. Her knight in shining armor turns out to drive a van and fly planes in his spare time. Or rather, fly planes and drive a van in his spare time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Fitton Carol

DS Sally Donovan swore and banged her hands on the steering wheel.

 _Now? Why the fuck NOW? It's not as if I actually want to be in London right now, but being stuck in the arse end of nowhere isn't really much better._

With an exasperated sigh, she shoved the door to her now dead Ford Fiesta open and stomped out into the snow on the lay by. And slipped on the ice.

"Fuck!" She yelled, as she turned her ankle. Leaning against the car, she opened her mobile: no signal, _and_ no battery. Of course. Teach her to go haring off after some piece of evidence Sir couldn't live without just because Freak told him to. And now she was stuck in the snow. Somewhere in the west country with no signal and no battery and a twisted ankle.

On the plus side, she did have her warrant card. And a warm coat.

On the minus side, it was the afternoon of Christmas Eve and the light was falling fast. It would probably start snowing, given her luck.

When the dilapidated van with the uninspiring sign "Icarus Removals" painted on the side hauled into view, Sally was sure that it was not her lucky day. Or week, for that matter.

The van skidded to a halt behind her car. Sally clutched her warrant card and hobbled up to it as best she could.

"Police," she announced, brandishing the badge. "Do you have a phone I can borrow? My car's stuck."

The occupant of the van was a short, ginger haired man with a face that was just… oddly familiar. Sally shook her head.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I… I… the mobile reception here is aw-awful. What's the matter?"

"My car's stuck," Sally explained. "I think one of the belts have gone."

"Do you want me to… take a look? I'm Martin, by the way. Martin Crieff, Captain Martin Crieff, Crieff, er that is, you can call me Captain Crieff. Although in the context of this, you should probably just call me Martin."

 _Nervous much?_

"Captain?" she asked.

"Y-yes. I'm captain of an airline. As part of an airline. MJN. Maybe you've heard of us?"

"Erm, no…"

"Oh, that's okay, not many people have." Martin stepped out of the van, pulling a threadbare coat around him and a spanner after him.

"So, why… why the van?" Sally asked.

"Oh, well… erm… I don't get paid or anything. To fly planes for MJN. Okay to fly _one_ plane. But I am a professional, in case you were wondering. But Icarus Removals – my van, it pays my bills and my rent."

During this speech, Martin had crossed to Sally's car, slipped twice on the ice and managed to open the bonnet.

"So you… know anything about cars?" she asked.

"Some," Martin said. "I mean, I have the van, and it's old, and breaks down a lot, so I have to fix it a lot or else I don't make deliveries."

"Oh."

"Well, it's not as bad as it sounds, but what I really love, what I've always wanted to be is an airline captain. I mean… I don't know why I'm telling you all this. Maybe, oh well." He trailed off and sighed gustily under the bonnet.

"What?" Sally asked.

"Maybe I thought, do you find that because you're police people confess things to you?" Martin asked.

"Erm… no, not as such."

"Oh, then I guess it's me," Martin mumbled. "I'm sorry – I'll just oh, here it is…"

"Well?" Sally asked.

"It's not… not good," Martin replied, wiping a greasy hand on his coat. "The timing belt's not only shot, it's completely shredded."

"Oh, fuck me," Sally groaned in frustration.

"Mmm, I'm afraid so," Martin replied, letting the bonnet down. "Oh! No! I mean! That's not… I don't want to fuck you – I don't know your name, to start with and it's cold here, and you may not like… might be a lesbian, which… I like lesbians, they're great, but I don't think I'd like to fu-…"

He stopped in embarrassment, and in the falling afternoon light, Sally could clearly see he was bright red. The urge to laugh welled up in her throat – the first urge since… oh, God, she couldn't remember when. But to laugh, now, after Martin, Captain Martin Crieff had said so much. Obviously he was the sort with poor impulse control, but enough self-awareness to catch himself short. Most of the time. And okay, it was cute. Unlike when a certain other man she knew started babbling – talk about lack of impulse control, Sherlock probably did it just to annoy people. Where Martin did it because he was just, probably, _Martin_

 _Get a grip!_ she thought. _He could be a total psycho for all you know._

Sally held out her hand. _In for a penny…_

"I'm Sally Donovan," she said. "And whether or not we're supposed to fuck is a question, I think, that can wait for another day. Is there a garage around here?"

The relief that flooded through Martin seemed to practically knock him over.

 _Okay, maybe just mortally embarrassed_

"Oh, I'm so glad. Erm, no… there's not. The closest one's on the other side of Fitton and it's after four. They'll be shut by now. I'm so sorry."

"Oh, bugger."

"Look, erm… I promise you, you can arrest me if you think I'm acting inappropriately, but can I give you a lift? I have to deliver this tree to my boss. She'll at least be able to… Well, she won't, will she, but we'll be warmer there than here!"

"And I can still arrest you?" Sally asked as Martin helped her limp to the passenger door of the van.

"Oh, yes," Martin said. "Erm, not like that, I mean. I mean, I'll be very, very, very, erm, careful. So that not. Of course…"

Sally decided to accept his help into the van. He was right about the handcuffs.

For all it's ricketyness, and the fact that it _did_ seem as if it were going to fall apart when it went over the next bump, it was clean – freshly scrubbed floorboards and dash. And it smelled unaccountably nice.

"Oh, that's because of the fir tree in the back," Martin explained. "Carolyn, since we didn't have any jobs around Christmas this year, decided that we should have a 'company meeting' on Christmas Eve – which, well, it was Arthur's idea, really. I think he wants to have a Christmas party for all of us, and he seems to think we're all family, so…"

"Carolyn's paying you to bring the Christmas tree," Sally finished for him.

"Well, not paying, erm… no."

"Really? She doesn't pay you to fly, and now she doesn't pay you to do your _job_?"

"Erm… well… it's not like that. It's…"

"Martin…" Sally let the "I'm a cop, and I'm warning you" note creep into her voice.

"It's exactly like that. But it was Arthur's idea and when you'll meet Arthur, you'll… you'll understand."

"All right, then," Sally conceded. "I'll withhold any judgment until I meet Arthur. "

"Perhaps that's the best course," Martin agreed. "Although, he might invite you to dinner. Which… well, I mean… you don't have to but… you seem…."

"That would be nice," Sally said carefully. "And I still have my cuffs."

In the darkness of the van, she couldn't be certain, but she thought she saw Martin turn bright red

* * *

Carolyn's house was a monstrous pile of mock Tudor that sat a discreet distance from the town beneath winter-bare trees.

Martin pulled the van in carefully and braked near the front door.

"Is your… I'm sorry to ask, is your ankle up to helping me get this out of here?" he asked Sally.

"Yeah," Sally said, sliding down from her seat. "Should be fine."

It was bitterly cold as they wrestled the twelve foot unwrapped fir out of the van and onto the doorstep.

Martin rang the bell and a cacophony of barking, shouting, and singing broke loose as the door was jerked open by a short, older woman with a sour expression.

"Oh, it's you," she said to Martin. "Bring it in. NOT the cold. And who's this?"

"Sally Donovan," Sally offered, deciding at the last minute not to show her warrant card.

"An assistant, Martin? How can you afford an assistant? Or, surely you haven't convinced this poor benighted girl to _date_ you?"

"No," Sally said quickly. Just in time to hear Martin's equally vehement "no!"

"Her car broke down on the A-45. I picked her up," he said. "She'll not get a garage to call her for at least two days and… Well…."

"Martin," Carolyn said, "I may operate a charitable sanctuary for rubbish pilots and idiot sons, and I may, under the influence of whatever it is Arthur put in the Pineapple Surprise punch be willing to have you and Douglas have dinner with me, but I will _not_ take in every lost girl you pick up!"

"Carolyn…."

"Oh, come now, there's plenty of food!" Another voice sounded, heralding the arrival of a man, taller than Martin (although _Sally_ almost fit that description). "Oh, hello," he said. "I'm Douglas Richardson, who do we have here, shivering in the cold? Come in, come in."

"Sally Donovan," Sally replied, taking Douglas' proffered hand.

"This is Douglas Richardson," Martin interjected, trying to insert himself between Sally and Douglas, a look of alarm on his face. "Don't let him try to seduce you, or anything, because I saw… erm, that is, he's my co-p-p-pilot, erm, first officer, erm…"

"I'm Martin's colleague," Douglas said just as Martin managed to stammer out,

"Friend."

Sally looked between the two of them – Douglas' quirked eyebrow, and Martin's blush when the moment, which had started out awkwardly, now would probably take an Olympic gold for awkwardness was thankfully broken.

"Ooh, Douglas! Do we have another one?" Another male voice, lighter this time, and incredibly excited floated out of the kitchen.

"Yes, Arthur," Douglas replied, steering Sally across the room and into the arms of a man who enveloped her in a bear hug.

The giver of the bear hug, Sally deduced, must be Arthur – the son of Carolyn.

"Brilliant! Now we can really have a party! Because in the stories there's always somebody lost who comes to dinner and gets unlost! And it turns out that she's a princess or something!"

Sally managed to disengage herself.

"I'm not a princess," she said. "I'm a cop."

"Oooh, brilliant! Do you have a hat?" Arthur asked.

"You'll have to excuse Arthur," Martin said, coming to her rescue. "He's just excited because it's…"

"Christmas! Martin! I've learned a new verse of the carol!"

"What carol?"

"Get dressed you merry gentlemen!"

"Arthur…" Carolyn interjected. "Shouldn't you and Douglas be somewhere that is else right now? Like my kitchen? Or did you want the roast to burn?"

"Ooh, right. Sorry, mum!"

"Apologies, Carolyn. Dinner will be ready soon," Douglas said, sketching a slight bow, and managing to look, well… gallant. Sally's eyebrows shot up.

"He cooks?" Sally asked.

"Douglas?" Carolyn replied. "Yes. Rather well, surprisingly. Arthur, on the other hand…"

"Arthur's cooking is more… performance art than anything else," Martin said.

"Ah."

"Well, don't just stand there," Carolyn snapped. "There's room for one more, of course, but that tree is not going to put itself up, nor is it going to decorate itself."

"Right. Sally?" Martin asked.

Sally grinned. Her mum hadn't had a tree for years, not since… – and she hadn't thought she missed it until now.

"Coming!" she said.

* * *

Elbow deep in branches, hands freezing, Sally began to reevaluate her initial flash of pleasure at helping put up a Christmas tree; especially one that wasn't hers.

Behind her, she heard Carolyn and Douglas trading one-liners, and Arthur singing one line over and over and over of "God rest ye merry, Gentlemen." Beneath her, on his back, Martin fought with the tree stand.

"Nearly there!" Arthur called out. "There! That's straight!"

Martin crawled out from under the tree as Sally let go of the trunk.

Amazingly, it did not list, lean or fall.

"Well done," Douglas said. "I knew you could do it, Martin!"

"Oh, well, Sally did the hard part, keeping it straight," Martin said, brushing needles off his arms.

"Oh, you have some in your hair," Sally said. "Come here."

Smiling, she stood on tip-toes as Martin slumped down, to allow her to brush his hair clean.

It was… nice. Unaccountably soft, and it smelled, yes, of fir, but also of shampoo – clean and wholesome.

"That feels…," Martin started to say, smiling up at her. Sally smiled back – he was so… open, it was nice to… _oh, for Christ's sake, Donovan…_

Sally came back to earth with a jerk and snatched her hand away. Fortunately, Arthur came barreling forward with a box of lights and ornaments, breaking the moment.

"I'll go and see if Douglas…," Martin said, straightening hurriedly as Sally also said,

"Can I get you a drink, I think I saw…"

They subsided and smiled shyly at one another.

"Yeah, I'll just…" Sally turned away, hurrying to the sideboard where Carolyn was refilling her wineglass. "Thank you," Sally said to her. "I appreciate your hospitality."

"Oh," Carolyn replied, trying and failing to look indifferent. "You know how it is on Christmas, one gets these ridiculous ideas about hospitality…"

"Erm… yeah."

"But I will say, Sergeant Donovan, if you do _anything_ to upset Martin, well… the poor boy doesn't have a great deal of sense, but he is a safe pilot, and while he's not a good pilot, he's also a cheap pilot, and if he has some kind of emotional breakdown because of you…"

"Carolyn! Carolyn," Sally interrupted the diatribe. "Martin and I are just… acquaintances. He picked me up tonight, we're not… dating or anything."

Carolyn didn't reply, but looked at her sharply. Sally took a swallow of wine and tried to focus on something else, anything else – Arthur and Martin untangling the fairy lights, for example.

* * *

Douglas turned out to be an excellent cook – despite Arthur's attempts to help.

Even Carolyn unbent enough to allow Arthur one single round of charades, something the others seemed to greet with genuine fear, but Sally found hilarious. Mostly because she figured out that he was trying to mime "the Girl with the Dragon Tattoo" within about four seconds (the dragon was a dead giveaway, really).

As they sat around Carolyn's fireplace, and Douglas told another story of daring do (or didn't, as Sally suspected), she watched Martin stand up from his corner of the sofa and drift to the piano tucked into a corner of the room. He stood in the shadows, his fingers drifting over a violin case lying on the lid.

"Do you play?" Sally asked as Douglas stopped talking.

"N-no… not anymore. My cousin taught me one summer… how to play. But I haven't…" He was taking it out of the case, blowing off the dust, almost reverentaly

"Oh, Skip!" cried Arthur. "That's brilliant! That's my grandfather's violin – he tried to teach me to play but…"

But Martin didn't seem to be listening. Sally watched as he tentatively tweaked the strings, fiddling and tightening them to his satisfaction and then picked up the bow, coating it with rosin.

"Are you going to play, Skip?" Arthur demanded. "I'm sure it would be brilliant!"

"I haven't played in years," Martin said, turning red and putting the bow and violin back in its case. "I wouldn't…"

"Oh, go on," said Sally over Arthur's disappointed, "oh, SKIP!" "Surely you can play something!"

"Well…" Martin looked between Carolyn and Douglas.

Carolyn shrugged.

"By all means," she said. "You use my plane, why not use my violin, too?"

Martin looked chagrined.

"Oh, please, Martin… of _course_ you can play it," Carolyn said. "I am, for reasons unknown to me, full of Christmas cheer. Make use of it. It's better than it sitting there gathering dust."

Douglas, for his part, had seated himself at the piano.

"Well, Captain?" he asked.

Martin smiled and tucked the violin under his chin.

"We’ll start with something easy," Douglas said.

* * *

Sally watched as the two men played the duet – a simple and familiar Christmas tune, transformed into beautiful music.

She glanced down at her now-empty wineglass and resolved that it would be her last. She was getting sentimental. She always did when she drank.

 _But wasn't this better than the alternative? Sitting in a council flat with your mum and her cigarettes and Mr Parker's loud and incontinent dog next door? And your sister and her hoard of screaming children?_

Sally pushed down the twinge of guilt at her intense dislike of Shazzer's kids. She told herself she loved them, they were her nieces and nephews, but they were also loud, unruly, and badly behaved. And the youngest one bit. Instead, for the moment, she gave herself permission to get lost in the music that Martin and Douglas were creating, to enjoy the scent of the wood fire, to relax in the company of some very nice, people.

And they were nice – a nice family, almost. A family that hadn't chosen each other, either, from what it seemed. Just sort of … fallen together.

It was… comfortable. And Sally wished for just a moment that she, too, could be part of that.

Across the room, the music stopped.

"I'm… I'm sorry," Martin was saying quietly. "I've forgotten the rest… My cousin and I used to play it… and his brother, that is, my other cousin would accompany us on the piano. But that was…"

"Ah, well," Douglas replied – "happens to us all." He stood and stretched. "I should be going home, anyway. It's late, and I plan an excessively lazy day of sleeping in, calling my daughter around noon, and then sushi and Dr Who."

"Ah, yes… you and your sushi," Martin said, laying the violin aside, loosening the bow, and covering the instrument with a cloth, the moment broken.

"And I should probably find a place to spend the night…" Sally said, rising. "Does the pub have any rooms?"

"Oh, erm… well… if you that is, my attic's got a sofa, but…," Martin began to stutter.

"Oh, come on, Martin! Douglas! Sally!" Arthur shot up from his doze on the floor by the fire where he was curled up with Snoopadoop. "You can't go! There's plenty of room here! And you can spend the night! Like a sleepover! It'll be brilliant!"

"Arthur… Sally might want to go home at some point, and anyway…" Douglas protested.

"No! I've already asked mum!" Arthur pointed to Carolyn who, due, no doubt to an excess of Christmas cheer, was currently snoring in a wingback chair by the fire. "And she said it's fine!"

Martin, Sally, and Douglas exchanged a long look.

"Well," Sally finally said. "I don't mind, but I'm calling the sofa here."

"Brilliant!"

"Surely there's a bed we could find you in," Martin said. "That is, I could find you, that is you could find…"

"Brilliantly played, Captain," Douglas murmured as Martin blushed.

"Oh, loads, Douglas!" Arthur enthused. "Upstairs, come on! I even prepared an extra one, just in case…"

* * *

Sally's room was connected to Martin's by a bath.

"This is… nice…" Martin said. "Do you want…"

"Oh, no… I'm just going to… my ankle…"

"Of course… Well, if you need anything…"

"Right. Yes…. Likewise of course…"

"Yeah… I'll just…"

"Yeah," Sally finally finished. "Goodnight."

"Go-goodnight." Martin made to close the adjoining door.

"Oh, and Martin?" Sally said.

"Yes?" Martin shoved the door open eagerly.

"Happy Christmas and … thank you."

Martin smiled and ducked his head.

"Happy Christmas, Sally."

* * *

 **Three Weeks Later**

Text from unknown number:

 _Hi, Sally, it's Martin Crieff, Captain Crieff – anyway, Martin. I was wondering would you like to have a drink with me some time? If you're around Fitton at all? Or if you want to…_

"Oh, new boyfriend?" Sherlock swooped down on her. They were standing in the drizzle outside the dodgy end of Euston station, clustered around the remains of what looked like a giant pantomime horse.

"No." Sally, snapping the phone shut.

Sherlock eyed her sharply and Sally brought her chin up.

"And what's so special about this one?" he asked.

Sally gave up trying to prevaricate. "He's nice, unlike _you_ , and he plays the violin. And he's an airline captain," she snapped.

"Humph," Sherlock said. "Are you Bring him round to tea?… Lestrade will want a look at him anyway. JOHN! BODY PARTS! LOOK!"

Sally grinned and reopened her phone.

 _Hi, Martin – Sally here. Are you free this weekend? There's somebody that wants to meet you. If you're interested. Plus, perhaps we could have that drink. ;)_

Sherlock would, of course make mincemeat out of him, but it would be worth it to see the look on Anderson's face, certainly. And she was fairly sure she could protect Martin from Sherlock. If she had to.

* * *

Martin _did_ come up to London that weekend, and managed to make a fairly decent impression on Lestrade and John, who "dropped by" the pub to see how they were doing. However, as they were all chatting of this and that – and Martin was holding his end up admirably, Sally noticed – they all got the surprise of their lives when Sherlock walked into the pub and taking one look at Martin, ran up and embraced him like a long-lost brother.

Or, to be more accurate, a long-lost cousin.

"Sally," Sherlock said, pivoting so that Martin was still in his grasp, his arm slung over Martin's shoulder. "If you do _anything_ to hurt my cousin, the rest of us will be standing around a body. Your body. And _I_ will be the one who put it there. Clear?"

Sally looked from Martin (who was pink with embarrassment and pleasure) to Sherlock (who was doing his best impression of a psychopath meeting his cousin for the first time in years) and swallowed.

"Freak," she finally said. "Sherlock… you have nothing to fear from me. Martin's boss has already threatened me. And believe me, she's much scarier than you are. By a mile."

It was worth it to watch Sherlock's face fall and to hear John's muffled snort behind her.

"Just you watch out, _Sally_ ," Sherlock hissed. "I know where you want to sleep tonight."

"Sherlock!" Martin twisted in his cousin's grasp. "Could you at least wait until I've bought her dinner?"

Sherlock subsided.

"Fine," he said. "But dinner's _boring_. Wouldn’t you two rather…"

"Okay, that's it." John pushed away from the table. "We're leaving. Martin and Sally don't need sex tips from you, Sherlock."

"Unlikely," Sherlock shot back, between the two of them I hardly think they'd manage to…"

"Right. Out." John propelled Sherlock from the pub, leaving Martin, Lestrade, and Sally staring at one another.

"Yeah," Sally said, "he's always like that."

Martin giggled.

"He's my cousin," he said. "Believe me, I've seen him worse. Why do you think I get along with Carolyn so well?"

Upon reflection, it did make sense.

"Well, I'll be off then," Lestrade said, clearing his throat and shaking hands with Martin. "It was good to meet you Martin, and… have a care with my Sergeant, all right? She's quite fast with the handcuffs."

"Oh, erm… thank you," Martin said. "I… she's already offered, actually."

" _Martin!_ "

"Yeah, well… have fun you two," Lestrade said, beating a hasty retreat.

"So…" Sally said they sat down again.

"Yeah…," said Martin.

"Do you…"

"Oh, sorry…"

"I… no, you first."

"Well," Sally said. "I was just going to…" and she leaned forward and kissed him. "If that's, you know… all right," she murmured pulling away.

Martin bit his lip and looked at her, his eyes shining.

"I hate to be quoting Arthur," he said in a whisper. "But it's more than all right. It's… brilliant."

At which point, Sally knew, the only realistic thing she could do now, was to kiss him again, and pretend that the faces of her boss, The Freak, and his boyfriend were _not_ pressed against the frosted glass window of the pub, watching them.

**Author's Note:**

> Not mine. No money. Huge thanks to all who made this possible. :)


End file.
